


Voyage Closed And Done

by QuickSilverFox3



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Asexual Jango Fett, But He Gets Better, Established Relationship, Good Parent Jango Fett, Hand-Holding is a Love Language, Jangobi Week (Star Wars), Jangobi Week 2021, M/M, Mention of Canonical Character Death, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 16:15:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29156418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuickSilverFox3/pseuds/QuickSilverFox3
Summary: Jango Fett died when Mace Windu cut his head off in front of his son. Waking up on Kamino was a surprise.[Jangobi Week 2021 Prompt #2 Time Travel]
Relationships: Boba Fett & Jango Fett, Jango Fett/Obi-Wan Kenobi
Comments: 17
Kudos: 273
Collections: Jangobi Week





	Voyage Closed And Done

Jango died when the purple blade sliced through his neck, the desperate scream of his son echoing in his ears. 

Waking up on Kamino—on the painfully familiar synthetic fabric that was nearly as hard as the tiles that lined the building—with his dying scream caught in his throat, was a surprise.

“ _ Buir?” _ Boba’s voice was sleep-roughed and tight, wary of some unknown threat as he slipped into the room.

“I’m fine, Boba,” Jango rasped reflexively, his trembling hands pressed to his throat as if that would be enough to wipe away the pain of its severing. Had he been dreaming? 

He could still taste the acrid tang of blood and bile in the back of his throat, smell the burning plasma of the  _ Jetii  _ and their  _ kad’au _ , feel the heat burning him inside his armor as he attacked. 

Boba was a dark shape at the edge of the room, hesitation clear in his quiet footsteps as he drew closer to the bed. Jango reached for him, settling the boy between Jango and the wall, Boba’s feet skimming across the blankets as he was lifted over. 

“Is it because of the  _ Jetii _ ? Is he making you sick?”

“No,  _ ad’ika. _ It’s not him.” Jango drew Boba closer, humming a half forgotten tune his father used to sing in the quiet moments of the day.

Obi-Wan was  _ complicated _ . Far more complicated than he wanted to admit to his young son, or even to his older echoes. His feelings towards the clones were messy, a desperate attachment that he couldn’t nurture, tangled with his love for his son that he thought he would never get to have. But Obi-Wan… Obi-Wan was something else. 

Two sets of memories crowded in Jango’s mind—a diverging path that unfurled in front of his feet—but he could remember Obi-Wan. They had shared countless kisses—the heat of his mouth against Jango’s, the gentle pressure of his forehead against the other man’s in a Keldabe kiss—and one blissful night when Obi-Wan had curled into his arms, exhausted but content, and they had slept, nothing more. 

“C’mon.” Jango lay back, feeling his heart settle at the familiar ache in his back, the soreness of his arms and legs making itself known as his panic receded. He couldn’t get attached to his echoes, but he had trained them as best he could, forced himself to be cruel so they had the best chance of survival. Boba moved with him, promptly drawing most of the blanket over himself, curling up in the warmed fabric. 

Jango stared up at the dappled shadows reflected on the ceiling from the ocean far below them. He deliberately allowed his breathing to slow and deepen, feeling Boba respond in minute fragments, the tension leaving his son’s shoulders as sleep overtook him once more. Jango envied him in a way. A dreamless sleep had been lost to him for years, except for that one night.

He bit back a slew of curses, letting them rattle round his mind like dried seed pods. It was as if he was trapped in a gravity well of his own creation, his thoughts inevitably turning towards Kenobi whenever he loosened his iron-clad control. He could still recall the pattern of freckles on the Jedi’s shoulder, had traced the constellation they formed with a blaster calloused fingertip and decorated it with a bruise—his attempt at claiming the unobtainable, a mark that would fade except for the memory of it. 

He had to  _ focus. _

Jango hadn’t been— wasn’t a stupid man. It was a particular benefit in his line of work as his beskar’gam provided him two forms of protection. He knew people saw his armour and his guns, and thought they knew everything about him. It loosened their tongues, made them complacent. Even Dooku—in another life—has slipped up with a murmur of ‘ _ inhibitor chips _ ’ caught on the tail end of a comm call to his mysterious master. 

There was something wrong with his echoes. There could be something wrong with  _ Boba _ . 

Boba mumbled something in his sleep, curling closer into Jango’s side. Jango glanced down, the shadows creating crevices and mountains, and ran a gentle hand over Boba’s curls, carefully tugging at the stray twists of hair. 

The floor was icy beneath his feet when Jango finally managed to extract himself from the bed. It was a small set of rooms the Kaminoans had put them in, the furniture bolted to the walls and floor and almost clinical in the curved angles and plain colours. They loomed like twisted shipwrecks in the gloom, gleaming opalescent where the wave-distorted light danced across their surface. 

Jango traced a hand across his armor, gritty flecks of dark green paint sticking to his skin as he moved to open the door. The manual lock stuck for a moment, and Jango froze, goosebumps prickling over his skin as he glanced back at the sleeping form of his son. The boy didn’t wake, curling further into the tangled mess of blankets.

The corridor was much the same, but Jango barely gave it a moments more thought. The memories—because what else could they be?—were crowding into his mind, demanding to be known even though they were impossible. He couldn’t say how he made his way to Obi-Wan’s door, only knowing that his feet were numb and his head ached with every blink sending fresh pain lancing through his skull. Jango stared at the featureless metal, trying desperately to come up with a plan through the looming lightning shocks of pain. He was used to this, had trained for this, and yet Obi-Wan had always had a way of ruining any plan he had like it was a compulsion. 

The door slid open just as Jango started to back away, and Obi-Wan took hold of his lowering hand with his own. The  _ Jetti _ ’ _ s _ skin artificially warmed by the tea Jango knew he was drinking, the scent clinging to his clothes and lingering in the air—a spiced smokiness that Jango recognised like a half forgotten memory.

“What happened?” Obi-Wan’s frown deepened as he leant forwards, staring into Jango’s eyes as if he was trying to read the answers of the universe in them. “The Force is coiled so tightly around you.”

“I died,” Jango whispered, his voice hoarse, stepping closer to Obi-Wan, cupping his face. Obi-Wan leant into the touch, his free hand reaching out helplessly to Jango’s hip. “And now I’m here. Again.”

“Darling,” Obi-Wan breathed, leaning forwards even as he stepped backwards, drawing Jango with him to press their foreheads together. The pain in Jango’s head lessened slightly at the gesture and he found himself relaxing slightly. If the Force was involved, then Obi-Wan would know, swaddled in the ridiculous and dangerous relic like a favourite grandchild. 

“Will your son be joining us?”

Jango froze, leaning backwards—mourning Obi-Wan’s closeness the moment he did so—and caught Boba’s eye as the boy stood at the end of the corridor, having snuck after him when he slipped from the room.

Boba’s face was set in the same look of undeserved confidence Jango had seen on a hundred iterations of his own face, before it wilted in the face of his flat stare. 

“No. My  _ ad’ika _ is going back to bed, or he’ll be running more laps than the troopers tomorrow.”

“But  _ buir _ —“

Obi-Wan’s laugh was a beautiful thing, warm as sunlight, and he looked surprised by its existence. “I have one just like that. He will sneak back the moment the door closes.”

Boba didn’t even attempt to deny it, his grin widening. 

“He can take my bed, while we talk.” Obi-Wan stepped backwards, gesturing for Jango—and by extension, Boba—to enter. Jango did so, unable to stop himself from reaching out to take Obi-Wan’s hand once more, squeezing it softly.

**Author's Note:**

> [ My Tumblr!](https://inkformyblood.tumblr.com) Requests are always welcome!  
> 


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